Ramsey Campbell - 1976 - The Doll Who Ate His Mother (13 page)

 
          
He
was calling, “Your friend is here!” as she ran stumbling downstairs, her heel
slipping from a stone edge. A young man appeared in the doorway from the
playground,
unstudding
his crash helmet, as she
caught herself back by the railing from the sharp stone edges below. He glanced
curiously at her, seemed about to speak—but she was past him and out, across
the playground and through the gates with a shouting gasp, almost suffocated by
her panic.

 
          
Ringo
was parked a hundred yards away, on Princes Avenue. She had calmed down by the
time she reached the car. She’d done what she had set out to do, and no thanks
to Edmund’s patronizing advice. There was something else she could do now,
without his approval. She climbed into Ringo, pressing herself determinedly
against the hot leather, and drove away.

 
          
The
Upper
Parly
Arts Centre was a terraced Georgian house
covered with cheerful graffiti, largely red and blue. Clare was fascinated long
before she was close enough to be sure what it was. A red and blue front door,
red and blue walls beyond the windows: the paint was bright despite the
discolouring
gusts from passing traffic. But the building
seemed empty, hollowed out by echoes. She was leaving when an enormous man on
the opposite pavement caught sight of her and shouldered his way pugnaciously
through the traffic, brandishing a movie camera like a gun. His bare stomach
smacked its stack of fat lips above his trouser belt. “TTG?” he shouted,
wheezing. “They’re on location. Church Street.”

 
          
By
the time Clare reached the city centre they had finished performing, except for
Chris. He was pacing around the stubby concrete tubs of sprouting earth,
pretending not to know that his prey, a dozen children, had almost caught up
behind him. Crowds of shoppers hurried by, glancing furtively at Chris or refusing
to look; a few gazed, fewer smiled. Though Church Street was a shopping
precinct now, its roadway paved over and forbidden to traffic by the scattered
tubs and a handful of saplings, the crowd still huddled together on the
pavements. Only Chris and the children played in the road.

 
          
She
sat on a bench to watch. The sun had cleared itself a space now; everything was
dazzling. She kicked aside pebbles of chewing gum the
colour
of doll’s flesh, scrawny coins of milk-bottle tops. Today Chris wore a mauve
singlet and elaborately
patchworked
trousers; she
could tell he was proud of the pots of ginger hair under his arms. Two
shopgirls
from Woolworth’s pointed at him, cawing. He
didn’t falter; he was wholly engrossed.

 
          
She
watched his pale intent face. Down a side street, a drill chattered harshly in
stone; next to her, the plastic cover of a hotdog stall folded open with a
thick gasp of onion. More strongly than in Edmund’s room she felt how young
Chris was—whatever his physical age. But now she could see how he’d made this a
virtue. She could never play so freely with kids. If these kids weren’t
enjoying themselves so much, she thought, some of them would be shoplifting.
She wondered if Chris had ever wanted to teach.

 
          
The
children pounced. Chris was shouting, laughing,
collapsing
beneath them. She watched his face. Before, she’d thought it strange, a little
spectral, with its long pointed nose and chin; now, as he gasped—as flushed and
excited as the children—she found it attractive. Its long, clear, simple planes
looked sculptured, uncluttered. But beneath the simplicity she was convinced
lay depth.

 
          
As
he heaved himself and clinging children upright, he saw her. At once there was
nothing in his face but delight. She couldn’t help feeling it too. “Hey,
fantastic,” he said. “I didn’t know you were watching.”

 
          
“I
only saw the end. I enjoyed it, though. You’ll have to do it for my kids
sometime.”

 
          
A
little girl was tugging at his arm. “Play us a hide and seek,” she pleaded.

 
          
“Right.
But let’s do that later, okay? You come to Upper
Parly
later and we’ll play.”

 
          
“When
shall we go?” she said, hopping impatiently. “In ten minutes?”

 
          
“Hey,
you want me to starve? You go home and have your tea,
then
we’ll play.”

 
          
Kids!
Clare said in code with her smile, and felt needlessly secretive; his smile
included the children as well. “It’s fantastic to see you,” he said. “What are
you doing downtown?”

 
          
“Looking for you.”
At once her abdomen felt as if she’d
stepped off an edge.

 
          
“Yeah?
That’s amazing.” He didn’t even seem anxious to know
why.

 
          
A
man was thrusting his way through the crowd, frightening people with his spongy
red-and-purple grimacing face, since that was what they seemed to expect him to
do; the children fled, squealing. “You know I’m helping Edmund Hall,” Clare
said to Chris, to reclaim his attention.

 
          
“Right.”
He watched the crowd flinch from the man.

 
          
“He
thinks the man who’s committing these crimes went to the same school he did. I
went to the school today and talked to one of the staff. He was a horrible man,
absolutely horrible. He shouldn’t be in charge of a zoo, never mind children. I
don’t wonder this boy Christopher Kelly went mad if that’s the kind of thing he
had to put up with.”

 
          
“Yeah,
I know what you mean.”

 
          
“Anyway,
what I was going to say—this man said he once saw Kelly stalking a cat, really
stalking like an animal. So that shows you were right about your cat. I’m sure
it must tie in. Dogs don’t eat cats.” All at once she remembered how vulnerable
he was; she’d interrupted his enjoyment just to remind him of this. “I was
angry with Edmund for saying what he did,” she said, but it sounded like a
feeble excuse.

 
          
“About my cat?
Yeah, well. She’s gone now. Anyway, she was
only a cat.”

 
          
She
was delighted he was taking it so well—though perhaps he had sensed her anxiety
and was pretending.

 
          
“That’s
all I came to tell you,” she said.

 
          
“Yeah?
You came just to tell me that? That’s really nice.
Thank you. Listen, come and eat,” he said.

 
          
She
slumped inside herself. After the tension she’d felt with Edmund and at St.
Joseph’s, Chris was almost too much of a relief. She felt exhausted; she had to
sit quickly on the edge of a concrete tub. Maybe food was what she needed.

 
          
“I’d
love to come,” she said.

 
          
The
other actors had been packing props into a nearby van; now they came back for
Chris. “This is Clare,” he said. “She’s a friend of mine. She teaches. We’re
just going to eat. I’ll see you back at Upper
Parly
.”

 
          
“You
be
sure you do,” an actress said.

 
          
“Rehearsals later.
Then we’re going to my place to get
stoned. Hey, when are we coming up to yours? You never invite us.”

 
          
“Yeah,
I’ll tell you when. I’m involved in a few things right now.”

 
          
When
the others had returned to the van, Clare said, “Is that girl chasing you?”

 
          
“Kind of, yeah.
I mean, she’s all right.

 
          
They’re
all good people. But I’m particular who I invite up to my flat.”

 
          
Clare
blocked her answering thought. It was presumptuous; she didn’t know him. Still,
she could tell he liked her. “Where shall we eat?” she said, to shut herself up.

 
          
“Anywhere.
You say.”

 
          
“It’s
too late for the cheap lunches. There’s the Master Mariner’s. That’s
self-service, not expensive.”

 
          
“Listen,
don’t worry about the price.”

 
          
Was
he offering to buy her lunch? He mustn’t do that. His acting couldn’t earn him
much. She’d argue when the time came to pay, if she needed to. “The Master
Mariner’s food is good,” she said.

 
          
They
headed for a side street; the sun rang blindingly in the metal sign of a corner
shop, set with computer type. Off Church Street it was slightly cooler. Clare
hurried to keep up with Chris before she realized he was strolling. He was
strolling as though he enjoyed it, as though he weren’t forced to slow down for
her. Her
selfconsciousness
faded. When he caught up
she began to stroll too.

 
          
She
gazed in shop windows. She slowed, gazing at a heavy necklace of smooth, richly
brown beads, darkly glowing wooden ovals; it hung on the reflection of her
African-print dress. “Yeah, that really goes with your dress,” Chris said.
“That’s perfect,” and he hurried into the shop.

 
          
She
was still gazing into the window, waiting for Chris, when a girl lifted the
necklace from its hooks. Clare glanced wistfully beyond her and saw Chris
holding out his hand for the necklace. Clare thumped the window, shaking her
head vehemently. She shoved the doors open, shouldering her way through a wall
of rock music as thick as the heat. “No, Chris,” she cried.
“No,
no, really!”

 
          
But
he’d stuffed money into the girl’s hand and was placing the necklace around
Clare’s neck. “Come on,” he said. “I want to.”

 
          
She
sensed his frustration. He’d released her from her tensions; she couldn’t bear
to cause any in him—besides, she was exhausted. She couldn’t cause a scene.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s beautiful.” At the door she kissed him on the
cheek. The convex mirror overhead sucked up their heads from their dwindling
bodies.

 
          
When
they reached Williamson Square, Clare gazed about at the crowd, proud of her
necklace; the beads touched her nipples tenderly, like fingertips. Thin trees
sprouted from uneven chessboards of grey stone; pigeons nodded rapidly at
crumbs among the benches; a man with a
trayful
of
birdsounds
warbled liquidly; Punch and Judy squawked at a
dog. People were handing out pamphlets beneath the boxy metal walkways, beneath
the cantilevered glass-and-concrete cylinder stuck to the side of the
Playhouse, which still looked like a music hall. A man was bearing down on
Chris and Clare.

 
          
Clare
clenched inside. He was a Child of God, or something similar. He extended a friendly
smile and a pamphlet toward them. She always disliked such encounters—felt rude
if she hurried by, didn’t want to get involved in a discussion. But he was
looking at Chris. “Stuff that fucking shit back up your
arse
,”
Chris said without breaking his stroll.

 
          
She
stifled her gasp, of shock or of mirth. “Chris!” she said, but it didn’t sound
much like a rebuke. Her ears were throbbing with the surprise. “You’re
terrible,” she said.

 
          
“Oh,
right.” Four hundred feet above their heads a restaurant spun slowly on its
pole. She took his arm to steer him toward the corridors of St. John’s
Precinct; his forearm was soft and furry beneath her fingers. “We go through
here to eat,” she said.

 
          
The
restaurant was on the second level. As they crossed the balcony above the
enclosed market Clare gazed down at the roofless stalls: boxes full of
colours
—no
more full
of
colours
than Chris’s patchwork trousers. “I like your
trousers,” she said.

 
          
“Yeah,
they’re all right.” He held back the glass door for her. “A girl I used to know
made them. She made a lot of my clothes. I lived with her for a while,” he said
with no change of tone, as if there were no reason for one. She could tell he
wasn’t trying to shock her, and he hadn’t.